


New Boss

by orphan_account



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Black Romance, Caliginous Romance | Kismesis, M/M, Midnight Crew - Freeform, The Felt - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-15
Updated: 2013-12-15
Packaged: 2018-01-04 18:48:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,344
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1084462
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You’re not the fucking boss; I am,” spits Slick.</p><p>“Temporarily the boss.”</p><p>“I’m the boss until I am fucking out of here and get to watch all of you die again,” he says, gesticulating with the cue stick threateningly. “I’m not gonna bother with the stupid pins. That’d be way less satisfying than stabbing each of you over and over and over again. Which is exactly what I’m gonna do.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	New Boss

**Author's Note:**

  * For [stunrunner](https://archiveofourown.org/users/stunrunner/gifts).



You don’t have time for this bullshit. At least, you wish you didn’t.

More accurately, the /only/ time you have is for this bullshit, since you were brought back to this mansion along with the rest of the Felt by Slick himself to serve his own purposes. Yes, the same Spades Slick you’ve been warring against since you can remember, and who currently has one of his greedy robotic hands on Lord English’s staff and Die’s doll in his pocket. The cue staff may be the symbol of leadership of the Felt, but it worries you less than the other item. If you had the doll, you wouldn’t have to worry about him threatening to make any of you disappear into nonexistence again. As the recognized leader of the bunch - without the boss around, that is - you’re least likely to get disappeared again, but that’s a risk you’d rather not take. You don’t remember what nonexisting was like, and you’re not eager to return to that state.

Right now, all you want is your crowbar back. Of course, Slick claims he hasn’t seen it.

For the moment, most of the gang’s distracted with Table Stickball, which Slick idiotically mistook for pool. Ms. Paint is watching the game in progress and looks somewhat interested, but you doubt it’ll be long before she’s back at Slick’s side. Which is a damn shame, since your irritation with him has been rising and it’s about time you had a quick chat with him to clear some things up.

“We’ll be back in a few,’ you tell her. “I need to talk to Slick about some logistics.”

She blinks her innocent, long-lashed eyes at you but of course, she’s not the one who questions you.

“Hell no, we are not fucking talking about logistics,” growls Slick. “This shit is straightforward. I know what I’m doing.”

“If you did, you wouldn’t need me here,” you remind him. “If you’re actually serious about getting out of here, you’re going to give me five damn minutes of your time.”

“I _hate_ time,” he grumbles, tightening his grip on the cue staff. Regardless, he follows you.

Letting him try to lead the way earlier was a good idea. Bumbling through the wrong door made it clear to him that he doesn’t actually know quite what he’s doing. For all his bravado, he’s realized that he needs your help, so he’s not a complete idiot. No, he’s very much a broken and half-robot idiot, with glistening metal and jet carapace making up equal parts of his tight body. Tight, shirtless body. Not that that should be relevant.

You two backtrack by a few rooms. As you walk, he’s muttering under his breath about how obnoxious you are and how this is all bullshit and how much he wishes he could just stab your fuzzy green torso until the rug was soaked with your blood. You’re so used to his threats and his rambling that it accomplishes nothing more than prompting you to roll your eyes. When you’re safely out of earshot of the Felt and Slick’s female friend, you turn to face him again.

“Look, we both know you can’t get through this mansion without me,” you say. “Your antics may be a riot, but your constant bitching isn’t.”

“You’re not the fucking boss; I am,” spits Slick.

“Temporarily the boss.”

“I’m the boss until I am fucking out of here and get to watch all of you die again,” he says, gesticulating with the cue stick threateningly. “I’m not gonna bother with the stupid pins. That’d be way less satisfying than stabbing each of you over and over and over again. Which is exactly what I’m gonna do.”

“Threatening me isn’t going to make me want to help you get out of here,” you point out, taking a step forward. You’re not impressed by his anger, despite his holding Lord English’s staff with a brand new half-cyborg body that’s likely even more dangerous than before. You wish you had your crowbar right about now to smash in his glaring face. A tension hangs between the two of you as you argue, and you have to remind yourself as you stare into his glowing red eye that all there is here is just old-fashioned contempt.

“I don’t care what you want; I will threaten anyone I damn well please.” Slick reaches out for you, and instinctively you try to shove his arm away. Ordinarily that would work; you’re bigger than him and are used to having your crowbar to bash him with. Heck, you’re even stronger than him - or you were until he was partially-remade into a damn robot.

He grabs your jaw with his free hand and forces you several paces back until you slam into the wall. You made an idiotic mistake, underestimating both Slick’s newfound strength and his desire to beat the shit out of you even if it directly interferes with his primary objective. You’re going to need to try a new tactic if you want to make it out of here unmaimed.

Yeah, you definitely need a new tactic, fast; he’s tightening his grip. You really hope he’s not going to break your jaw. You attempt to shake your head or open your mouth, but his metal fingers are having none of it. In a last ditch effort, you roll your eyes. It works, by a stroke of luck, as his curiosity gets the better of him enough to relax the pressure on your mandible - though you’re still very much pinned against the wall.

"What?!" Slick glares, clearly displeased by your audacity to not look terrified.

“Snapping my jaw wouldn’t be very smart of you,” you tell him, not daring to move though you keep your tone cool. “If you break my jaw, I won’t be able to tell you where to go, and you don’t trust any of these other idiots even a bit.”

“Stop fucking knowing shit,” he hisses. You can tell that he despises that you’re right, but won’t go so far as to say it in those words, and that knowledge curls your lips into a short-lived smile.

You’re backed up as far against the wall as you can be, so when he closes in, pressing his body against yours, there’s nowhere you can go. The anticipation of exactly what the hell he plans to do now is unsettling, considering Slick’s definitely a bit unhinged, and you can feel his hard body against yours through your suit.

For a moment, he regards you like he’s genuinely torn between stabbing you in the gut or swinging the staff to bash in your head. Neither would surprise you. What he decides instead _does_ catch you off guard.

With his free hand, Slick clenches your shoulder with an iron grip. Your eyes flicker shut for a moment as you steady yourself to avoid visibly wincing in pain. During that second of blindness, he mashes his lips against yours.

His lips are warm and slick, his teeth razor sharp as your tongue nicks one of them in your enthusiastic reciprocation. The anticipation is gone as everything suddenly clicks into place. You have good old-fashioned contempt, and enough of a mind to think that it’s a shame he didn’t end up dropping the staff, but you also have the taste of him on your tongue and want _more._

Slick bites your lower lip, quickly and cruelly. Your nerves sing with pain and you taste blood but you only kiss him all the harder, grabbing his naked, artificial shoulders. The metal is as cold as his mouth on yours is hot.

“Slick?” You hear Ms. Paint’s voice and immediately he recoils like you’re poisonous, wiping his mouth off with the back of his hand as he whips around. You gingerly rub your shoulder, well-bruised from his vice grip, and keep leaning against the wall as you hear footsteps nearing the room.

“We’re not talkin’ about this,” he hisses, not looking back at you. “But this ain’t over.”

You should hope not.

**Author's Note:**

> Stunrunner, thank you for editing this despite it being a Christmas present for you. :) May this be the first of many Intermission fics for me!


End file.
